The train was moving. I was slouched in the same direction. Some claim that sitting in the opposite direction of one’s journey can cause serious physical distress. Until now I have never been sick on a train, I mean from the car’s lurching, or because I had been bothered by dusty smells or bodily odors. Admittedly, I was now having to travel under horrid conditions and in a state of physical and mental disrepair beyond the ordinary, but the sickness had already broken out or been incubating before I got on the train. In those days and nights, the mode of transport was therefore not relevant. It seems that certain illnesses are terrible when one travels. The bubonic plague, in particular, or beriberi, or even myonecrosis. I’m only citing the most well-known afflictions, obviously. In the case of short rides, the patient makes the best of a bad situation, but, when the journey becomes interminable, the symptoms are aggravated. Doctors have published on this, and not the least known of them at that. In my case, I was suffering from no major plague at that time. However, as soon as I took my place, I turned my chest and face toward the front, as if, instinctively, my body had dictated to me the best possible position to endure an accident or misfortune.
There was nearly no one else in the compartment when I boarded in Mongkok, and, after something like a minute, the Chinese passenger occupying the seat next to mine gathered her belongings and vanished. My outfit is disturbing, I know. My old monastic rags, which don’t always get taken to the dry cleaner, provoke negative reactions, aggravated by my preference for the squatting position, at the foot of the bench, though it is a natural and quite comfortable position. I happen to be questioned soon after I’ve settled. I’m pushed back by the tip of a shoe sole, someone fidgets, my presence is deplored aloud. As I am serving on orders and the Organization takes care of me on my return, I tolerate these humiliations valiantly. I absorb the insults without responding and, when there are blows, I take the blows. Faithful to the Chinese culture of fearlessness, the passenger had not let out any unpleasant remarks before disappearing. Like our instructors say, you can still escape beatings and, in any case in China, there are people who know how to live and let live.
I remained like this, squatting and shunted and in relatively good health, from Mongkok Road to Cheungwong Road, dozing in the long, dull hours.
A little after Cheungwong Road, Schlumm came into the compartment. At this period in his existence, that he had a human form was difficult to argue. It is true he resembled me greatly, which didn’t work in his favor. His destitute bonze rags stuck to his flesh and seemed to wrap right around his bones; it underscored the weird solidity of his frame and didn’t encourage making his acquaintance. He passed by me, not glancing at me, examined the area around the window as if he’d discovered a place of utmost importance, where perhaps he would have to spend several years in ascetic catatonia, then, having set-upon a course of action, he withdrew into himself abruptly and squatted against the ventilation system. He squatted in the opposite direction. His scarves and the very dirty rags clothing him, indigo, blackish brown, and very dirty, started flying and flapping around him. He extended an arm toward the air conditioning switch and cut the power. The rags fell immediately. Once there was calm among the fabrics, silence reigned, if one can call the din of railway journeys silence. I dozed off again; this lasted an hour or two.
The scenery went by indistinctly behind the window. Cheungwong Road’s sights had given way to Kamlan Street’s poorly maintained storefronts. My view of it was very fragmented, between two fits of sleep. I’d have to press my face against the window to get a better look. I had been avoiding the window area currently occupied by Schlumm. The window seat is often preferred, even if it sometimes means having to travel facing the wrong way, and thus risk falling ill. The passenger can see what’s passing by and thus thinks he can determine where he’s going. It alleviates his anxiety. However, when you think about it, the reference points you choose for yourself from external images are quite illusory. Illusory or unstable. Let’s take a simple example. Kamlan Street’s surroundings, for example, meld into Kamfong Street. Apartment buildings stand in similar upright positions; the same four-character wishes for happiness are above every door; the crowd’s Asiatic faces are all equally beautiful and touching viewed from the rooftops; the people all dress the same way. That’s why I prefer to stay near the ground when I want to gather reliable information. Near the ground, landmarks are fixed, whereas at window level, everything moves vertiginously. Near the ground, my geography relies on simple data, it’s limited to the metallic structures that dock seats to the floor. I can clearly see details lacking in momentariness, some hardened gum here, four black hairs rolled into a loop there, and, further away, a puddle of dark-gray dust. If there is anything that clears away my anxiety, it’s these modest elements, and the picturesque tread that doesn’t fade between lulls. I take comfort in that rather than in fleeting visions of architecture or crowds. Whatever it may be, as the end of the afternoon approached, I felt like going and observing what could be seen behind the window’s glass.
I rose, and, using my hands to keep myself from losing balance, I went toward the window. Twilight hadn’t yet completely overtaken the world, but I moved blindly, like I often did, which is to say without caring whether my eyelids were in an open or closed position. Certain mystics in the Organization insist that moving around by feel and while holding one’s breath offers fewer risks than other ways. Though I don’t always agree with these enlightened men, I admit that I’m not indifferent to such recommendations. I had already made decent progress when I heard Schlumm whine. My left foot was bearing down on a piece of his robe. I stepped several centimeters to the side and mumbled apologies.
“I wanted to see what was outside,” I explained.
“No reason to ignore what’s inside,” Schlumm said.
“Your robe was in the way,” I said.
“What robe?” said Schlumm. “That’s my skin.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t see.”
“Oh, you see?” Schlumm crowed in a sinister tone. “And yet, it’s inside.”
“Oh, inside, outside,” I said. “We’re not going to quibble. For the difference that. .”
I turned my attention toward the scenery and stopped talking. I made sure now to open my eyes wide. I had to grasp onto the crossbar to keep from stamping on Schlumm’s clothing or epidermis. The hour had changed, but the scenery had hardly done so since Mongkok Road. We were still in the city, surrounded by stalls set up on trestles, protected by canvas sheets and wall hangings, and it was raining. Shopkeepers came and lit bare lamps that exposed cheap trinkets, T-shirts, padded bras, pieces of burnished duck in soy sauce, assortments of pirated records. I noted in passing the presence, at the top of the stack, of some of my favorite Cantopop stars. I greedily scrutinized the market’s hustle and bustle for a quarter of an hour.